


feel the earth move sunward

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (sort of angst not sort of happy ending), (sort of), (there’s definitely a happy ending), Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Kent Parson and Alexei Mashkov are not friends.  And then they are.  And then they're more.Kent has no freaking clue how it happened, but he sure is glad that it did.





	feel the earth move sunward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindinglights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindinglights/gifts).



> My gift to blindinglights for the Kent Parson Birthday Bash! The request asked for angst with a happy ending, enemies to friends to lovers, and one of them has an injury, so here is a combination of all three of those. I hope you enjoy!♥
> 
> Thank you to marc0bot for the beta.
> 
> The title is from "My Triumph" by John Greenleaf Whittier

It isn’t as though Kent goes out of his way to pick fights—on or off the ice, he knows he’s better off using a wink and a smirk and a well-placed chirp to get his point across than with his fists. But for a guy who doesn’t go around looking for a fight, he sure seems to end up in more than his fair share of them. 

Mashkov, the Falconer defenseman, has been staring at him from across the bar for at least a half hour now. Kent would even go so far as to say glowering. But Kent is here in this grungy little back-alley dive by himself, and he’s content to let the other man alone to his corner, no matter how much he wants to know what one of Providence’s rising stars is doing in this bar, instead of at whatever one the rest of his team is celebrating their 5-1 victory over the Aces tonight.

Not that Kent’s bitter or anything, sitting by himself with only his own alcoholic companion to nurse the sting.

Okay, yeah, he’s definitely bitter, but he’s also wearing enough bruises from the game that he’s willing to mind his business instead of trying to figure out what Mashkov’s doing in this of all bars, and it’s definitely enough to keep him from wondering who pissed in Mashkov’s cheerios.

At least, that is until Mashkov apparently tires of his sit and glower routine and comes over to where Kent is sitting at the bar. This is what Kent’s talking about, he doesn’t pick fights. It’s always the other guy who starts it—he was _trying_ to leave Mashkov alone. (Okay, at least half of the time it isn’t him starting the fight. You’ve got to give him at least half.)

Mashkov steps up to the bar next to Kent’s stool and just stands there, waving off the bartender when he asks for his order. He’s practically looming over him, with that scowl set firm and a furrow carved between his eyebrows. Kent’s not going to say it’s intimidating, but it’s intimidating. He affects nonchalance and takes a sip of his drink even as he’s eyeing Mashkov carefully out of the corner of his eye. Hopefully Mashkov has some sense of discretion—even as quiet and out of the way as this bar is, there’s always someone with a cell phone camera, and he really doesn’t feel like ending up on Deadspin this week.

“Something I do not understand, Kent Parson.” Mashkov’s tone is surprisingly conversational considering his thunderous expression. “You are very good hockey player. Very fast, very skilled. So why you do stupid shit?”

Kent raises an eyebrow and takes another sip of his drink. If Mashkov thinks he’s the first person to give him this speech, he is very, very wrong; Though the man is certainly taller, fitter, and has more hair than Kent’s middle school guidance counselor. He almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. 

What does Mashkov want? It’s not to chat about Kent’s life choices, that’s for damn sure.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he says, because if Mashkov isn’t going to be specific with what he means by ‘stupid shit’, Kent certainly isn’t going to volunteer. His experience in that area is considerable, after all.

“Pick fights, take bad penalties. Rush goalie.” Mashkov raises an eyebrow, and that combined with the frown and the effect is almost comical enough to make Kent laugh. He covers by motioning to the bartender for another drink. “You do not play good hockey because you play dirty, so why you do?”

Kent sets his glass back on the bar with a bang. He can feel his molars grinding together as he clenches his jaw against the impulse to yell. “Look,” he says, spitting the words out between his teeth like bitter, prickly burrs, still sore from the loss and resentful of Mashkov trying to pick at him while he’s raw. “I don’t track you down after you lose and tell you your game sucks. I’d of thought that was just professional courtesy, but I guess I thought wrong. If you want to go we can take it outside but if you don’t then you finish your damn drink and you get the hell out of my bar.”

He still isn’t looking at Mashkov, has his eyes fixed squarely on the bottles of scotch and vodka lined up behind the bar. When a moment passes and Mashkov still hasn’t said anything, he risks a glance out of the corner of his eye. The other man is still standing there, very still. His expression has smoothed out, the frown gone, and he’s looking at Kent very calmly.

It’s his eyes that almost make Kent turn and face him. He isn’t angry, which Kent had expected, and he isn’t mocking or disgusted or pitying or anything else that guys who try and start shit are when Kent refuses to fall for their bull. He’s—resigned. Calm. Cold. Kent’s seen Mashkov with his team, with his friends, and the guy is always smiling, always laughing. Somehow it seems worse than anger to have that cool neutrality turned towards him. Even the scowl seemed more natural on the features of such an emotive man.

“Very well, Kent Parson. I will see you on the ice, then.” Mashkov swallows the rest of whatever was in the glass in his hand, sets the glass on the bar, and with one last pointed look of that unnervingly level gaze, turns and walks out of the bar.

Kent takes a deep breath and a deeper drink from the fresh glass the bartender sat in front of him. He’s never heard of Mashkov being a vindictive guy, but he guesses there is a first time for everything. He never even found out what he’d done to piss the guy off so badly, other than rushing his goalie. Hopefully, whatever it was, Mashkov isn’t going to make it a problem the next time the Aces played Providence.

* * *

A barbecue at the Bittle-Zimmerman house isn’t the worst place in the world to spend an afternoon. After all, there’s pie. But the promise of cherry pastry comes with the sort of awkward company that Kent would rather get another root canal than have to deal with, so if he were smart he would pass up the opportunity to eat Eric’s delicious baking and stay home and chill with his cat. 

Unfortunately, Kent is not that smart.

Which is how he finds himself helping haul vats of potato salad and coolers filled with chilled drinks out onto the back porch of Jack’s painstakingly restored two-story Victorian in the middle of the Providence summer, trying to make himself look busy enough to avoid the attention of the crowds of Jack’s friends from college, Jack’s teammates, Jack’s family members, and Jack’s dad’s old NHL teammates. 

Places full of people who have good reasons to have a beef with Kent, or care about someone who does, are not places Kent willingly spends a lot of his free time. But, apparently, for the chance of maintaining this fragile, new thing that is his being on speaking terms with Jack again, Kent is willing to face the wrath of Alicia Zimmerman and, like, a whole lot of other almost as scary people and hang out at this barbecue all afternoon. That, and he’s been promised pie. 

With the buffet set up, Eric shoes Kent out of the kitchen with a knowing smile, “You know I love the extra help, but you go on and grab yourself a drink. It’s time you got to enjoy the party. I’ve got to go play host and I can’t have you hiding out in my kitchen all afternoon.” Kent’s pretty sure Eric knows he’s been avoiding the other guests on purpose and that this is some carefully crafted and ingenious form of revenge.

Thus ejected from his hideaway, he meanders over to the buffet table. Jack seems thoroughly ensconced in conversation by the barbecue with a pair of people Kent vaguely recognizes from Samwell. Hopefully he can grab a minute to talk to him later, but at least he can get one of the things he came for.

The selection of side dishes is fantastic, as Kent had expected of a party catered by Eric Richard Bittle, and he scoops a couple of the salads onto his plate with high hopes. But he’s here for the pie and his mouth waters as he stares down the array of desserts.

“Blueberry is the best, Kent Parson, you should try.”

Kent swears and fumbles his plate. Mashkov’s still laughing at him when he manages to catch it and straightens with a scowl, “What the hell, man, this shit’s too good to drop.”

“You are right, good thing you catch.”

Mashkov is still smiling at him, no sign of the man who tracked him down in a Vegas bar to insult him, or lifted him up and shook him one-handed for rushing his goalie. The dichotomy is jarring, and Kent retreats to the safety of pastry-based discourse.

“You’re wrong, though,” he says, gesturing at the swath of pies in front of them, “it’s cherry. Cherry’s the best one.”

Mashkov tilts his head consideringly, “No, I do not think so. But, I am willing to test if only to prove I am right.” He picks up a pie server and slices himself a hefty wedge of cherry pie. It’s followed onto his plate by an even larger slice of blueberry pie. Kent notes the fillings, brightly colored and glistening in the midafternoon sun, make a pleasing contrast next to one another, vaguely patriotic.

Kent snorts, “You just want an excuse to eat more pie.”

“I do not need _excuse_ , Kent Parson.” 

Mashkov’s smile is open and excited and friendly, the same one Kent’s seen him send teammates and small children and Eric whenever there’s unexpected pie. He’s never seen it pointed at him before, but, like, it’s nice. 

“You need both, also. For fair comparison. See that blueberry is best.”

Kent finds himself laughing back as Mashkov deposits two (much smaller, he notes) slices of pie onto Kent’s plate, “I don’t think you’re going to win this one,” he says as he sneaks a brownie onto his already overstuffed plate and grabs a fork, “but I’ll give it a shot. If Eric made it, it can’t be _bad_.”

“Nothing B makes is bad! See, I always think you are good man, Kent Parson, but now I know.”

“Why, ‘cause I like Eric’s cooking?” 

“Because you _show respect_ for B’s cooking. And because you help B in kitchen when you are guest. And because you come to Zimmboni’s party even though you not know anyone here,” Mashkov pauses, sliding a third equally oversized slice of pie on his plate and raises an eyebrow at Kent. “So I can see, yes? Kent Parson is good person, or would not be here and I would not be saying to you.” 

Okay, this is cool, he could deal with being friends with Mashkov. By all accounts the guy is one of the nicest people in the league, Kent can manage to be friendly back. Even if after today they go back to awkward muted hostility, at least he can get through this party with less awkwardness than anticipated.

And, you know, the flattery is nice even if he feels his ears pinking at the unbelievable and overly complimentary praise. 

“Come,” says Mashkov, leading him over to one of the picnic tables set up on the wide stretch of grass between the kitchen garden and fire pit that bookend Jack’s suburban-paradise of a backyard. “We still need to decide blueberry is the best. And I know you have cat, you show me pictures.”

Kent laughs, full-throated and delighted, “You’re not going to win this one, dude. But I will absolutely show you Kit. She is _definitely_ the best.”

* * *

Kent’s at the gym when the notification lights up his phone. He doesn’t even see it until probably half an hour later, after he’s showered and changed and on his way to the parking garage with his mind already wandering off to thoughts of dinner. When he finally glances down at his notifications, the headline draws him to a standstill right in the middle of the hallway. 

_Alexei Mashkov hospitalized._

Damnit. It’s fucking July. How the hell did Alexei manage to get himself hurt enough for a major news source to pick it up in the middle of summer, that’s what Kent wants to know. No, that’s a lie, Kent wants to know a hell of a lot more than that, but he needs someplace to start and he doesn’t have any good ones.

There aren’t any other relevant messages on his phone. Which, why should there be? He and Alexei are friends, of a sort, but they aren’t so close that any of their mutual acquaintances would think to call the other in the event one of them was injured. (And, if Kent secretly wishes that he and Alexei were closer, well, no one knows that apart from himself.)

Kent sits himself in his car and reads the article. He can be logical about this. 

It’s short, just a few sentences, and says that Alexei Mashkov has been admitted to a hospital in Providence after a motor vehicle accident which is being investigated by local police. That raises more questions than answers. 

Kent swallows his pride and texts Eric. The minutes tick past and there’s no response. That’s more telling than anything, given how attached Eric is to his phone. Kent has a lump in his stomach and a ringing in his ears, but he shoves away his fears and misgivings and pulls up a different contact.

One text to his sister letting her know he won't be home for dinner and a stop at the nearest Starbucks for a sandwich and a frappuccino later, he has Alexei’s Providence townhouse plugged into his GPS and is headed towards the interstate. 

Yeah, okay, while this definitely isn’t the stupidest thing he’s ever done, it does make the list. He’ll figure out the details when he gets there. It’ll work. And no one has ever accused him of being smart. 

( _Alexei has_ , an unhelpful voice in his mind reminds him. Kent tells that voice very firmly to shut up.) 

In Providence, there is, as expected, no answer to his knock at Alexei’s door. Much more promising is the text message from Eric that came in halfway through Kent’s impromptu road trip. Kent finds himself laughing aloud with relief. 

A ten-minute drive over to Jack’s house and the momentary elation is gone, the creeping dread returning, if for an entirely different reason. Before, he’d been nervous because he didn’t know what had happened to Alexei, how seriously he was hurt. Now he just feels awkward, and impulsive, and a fool. Driving four hours across three states because you heard your friend was hurt is a little . . . weird. Kent’s self-aware enough to recognize that.

But—he’s here now. And if the thought that he could quietly slip away and head back to New York before anyone catches sight of him does briefly cross his mind, it is just as quickly driven away by the sight of Jack Zimmerman walking down his neatly manicured front garden path towards Kent’s not-at-all inconspicuously parked car.

Bowing to the inevitable, Kent rolls down the window.

“Hey, Kenny. You going to come inside or are you just going to sit here all night?” he asks with an all-too-knowing smile. Kent silently curses every decision he’s ever made to lead him to this point. “Bitty made pie, and I’m sure Tater would appreciate the company,” Jack continues on.

Because it’s too late now and he’s already been revealed a horrible fool, Kent follows Jack into the house. It smells like fresh baked goods and Kent follows his nose and the soft sound of voices into the living room. Alexei is lying on the sofa, Eric perched on an armchair, the lights turned down low. A plate of half a blueberry pie sits on the coffee table.

Eric looks up, and, with a smile that makes Kent wonder how transparent he really is, gives Alexei a pat on the shoulder and heads back into the kitchen. He may or may not give Kent a slight prod with his elbow as he walks by—Kent isn’t admitting to the awkward stumble that results either way.

He settles himself down in the chair Eric vacated. It’s harder than he expects to fix his usual confident smile in place, but he manages. When he finally looks up at Alexei, he finds the other man is smiling at him, eyes tired but warm.

“I heard you got hurt,” Kent says, cutting straight to the point.

Alexei shrugs gingerly, “Car accident. Was not so bad. B says reporters make a big deal about it, but only because is off-season. Will be fine, just bruises. Take worse hits on the ice.”

“That’s good.” If possible, Kent feels even more unbearably stupid now that his impulsive irrationality has been stripped and laid bare. Alexei is fine, there was no reason for him to worry. No reason for him to rush to his bedside like a distraught lover in one of those romantic dramas that his sister always makes him go to and he secretly loves. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat—this whole episode has him completely wrong-footed and he doesn’t know what to say.

Kent starts at the soft touch against his hand. Alexei twines their fingers together and gives his palm a squeeze. “Thank you for coming, Kenya. It makes me very happy to see you.”

Kent blushes, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Yeah, me too.” Maybe he can’t yet tell Alexei everything, can’t even admit it to himself, but he can start with that.

* * *

Kent Parson does not bake. Three childhood accidents, one failed pie-making lesson with one Eric Bittle, and a drunken attempt at Tollhouse cookies that nearly burned down his apartment can attest to this fact. But it’s his boyfriend’s birthday and Kent is going to make this fucking cake if it kills him. Which it might.

“Damnit.” Kent stares in despair at the remnants of cake attempt number three splattered across the tiles of Alexei’s kitchen floor. At least the consistency of this one looks better than the last two, but at the rate he’s going, he’ll finally produce something edible in time for Alexei’s _next_ birthday.

He’s caught up short from his moping when the front door opens and Alexei’s voice booms out a greeting. Kent freezes in a moment of panic, all plans of a birthday surprise crashing down around him, before he slumps against the counter. The idea of a surprise party was long ago defeated by the depths of his culinary incompetence, and nothing else.

“Hey Alyosha,” Kent says, putting on his most charming smile. Both he and the kitchen are covered in chocolate cake batter and he’s pretty sure there’s flour in his hair. 

Alexei stands in the doorway, taking in the mess. His expression is completely neutral, and for a moment Kent thinks he might actually be angry. Then a grin splits across his face like sunshine through a fog bank and Alexei bursts out laughing loud enough to startle Kit, who had wound her way between his legs on her way to investigate the mess.

And then Alexei’s crouched on the floor apologizing to Kit and keeping her away from the goopy mess on the floor even through his residual chuckles, and the whole situation is so ridiculous that Kent can’t help but laugh as well, clutching the counter and doubling over until he has a stitch in his side.

“Kenya, what happened?” Alexei asks, once they’ve calmed down and Kit has been safely escorted out of harm's way.

“I tried to make a cake.” He gestures at the debris littering Alexei’s once pristine kitchen. “It didn’t go so well.”

“Why you try to make a cake? You trying to burn house down?”

“Because it’s your birthday, duh. Happy birthday, by the way,” Kent tacks on the felicitations as though he hadn’t wished Alexei a happy birthday when he woke up that morning, and when he served him a special birthday omelet for breakfast, and when he kissed him goodbye before Alexei left for his meeting. It seems to be an unbearably sappy reflex he can’t repress.

“You know you can just buy cake. Or ask B to make. Or I can do myself,” Alexei arches an eyebrow at the kitchen. “Is not an area of expertise for you, yes?” He’s smiling as he says it, though, so Kent can’t get too mad.

“Homemade is better, I can’t ask Eric to make you a birthday cake if it’s supposed to be, like, a romantic gesture, and you can’t make your own birthday cake, that would defeat the whole purpose,” Kent huffs and crosses his arms. “I admit the plan was flawed, but the intent was solid.” 

Alexei’s expression is soft and sweet, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he says, “Is very nice thought. Thank you, Kenya.” He picks the paper towels up off the counter, tears off a handful, and tosses the roll to Kent. “How about after dinner we go to the bakery with the carrot cake by the bookstore, yes?”

Kent grins wryly as he crouches to wipe up the mess. “That . . . sounds like a better idea,” he admits. “But it’s my treat, I still want to spoil you at least a little.” 

It’s not the birthday treat he’d planned, but it’s a nice one nevertheless. And even if the cake is store bought, the company more than makes up for it.


End file.
